wounds; water-cresses, because they are good for the stone, dropsy, and scurvy; oranges and lemons, because they are useful in ague; and mistletoe, because it helps the falling evil. Ashleaves were not to be despised, because, steeped in wine, they made men lean. It will be noticed that melancholy is considered a disease. There are several 'secrets' purporting to cure it, which were doubtless in great request. It is indeed no wonder that dames and maidens were fond of gathering simples, when we consider the cheering virtues that were attributed to them. A syrup made of borage and bugloss, they were told, cured melancholy, caused light hearts, and took away grief. Who would not drink a cup of this mixture to the dregs? We are apt to look upon short memories as misfortunes; Mr Culpeper looked upon them as a disease, and was ready with his secrets to lengthen them. "Anoint your temples, where the arteries pass, once a month, with the gall of a partridge-it mightily strengthens the memory,' he would inform dazed young student or failing senior who came to him; 'or try rubbing the soles of your feet with mustard ; this will help your forgetfulness, and quicken your motions too. Corpulence, too, is included in the list of infirmities common to the subjects of King Charles II. Culpeper thus speaks of those afflicted with too great a girth: 'Some men are so gross and fat that they can hardly walk or do any business; let such eat three or four cloves of garlick every morning with bread and butter, and fast two hours after it, and let their drink be water wherein fennel hath been boiled; it will, in a very small time, ease them.' any But over, and under, and through all this physician's practice there was a constant deference, or reference, to the planets. Not a herb could be gathered but at given seasons indicated by them; nor a cure effected without their propitious influence. We may congratulate ourselves, as we turn from his nut-brown volume, that physic has divorced itself from astrology, even if its progress has not been otherwise to our satisfaction. With the keen relish he possessed for exposing pretensions, shewn in his denunciations of counterfeit drugs and in his treatise on errors in chirurgery, we may take it for granted that Culpeper himself would have turned the planets out of his surgery, if his life had been longer. WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. 'HEAVENLY powers!' cried Ellis, 'it is the young man who was drowned!-John, what shall we do? Let us run for our lives.' All were awestruck for a moment, as they recognised, in the figure crouched against the corner of the rock, the young man whom they thought they had left behind them, a corpse, on Ynys Enlli. Even Brumfit was staggered, and put his hands to his eyes, to hide the dreadful sight. But his stupor was only for a moment. Gerard moved, and as he moved, the money in the canvas-bag, which he had placed in his pocket, chinked and rattled. The sound awoke the fury of Brumfit. 'Man or devil, you shan't rob us of our gold!' he cried. Here, man or devil, overboard you go.' And he advanced to seize Gerard in his powerful arms. But John, who now saw how matters stood, caught Brumfit by the arm. 'Where's the bag? Get that first,' he shrieked. Throw away the money, you fool, again!' Then Brumfit recoiled. After all, to do a murder is a very horrible thing to the most brutal nature, and oftener done under the influence of brute fear than of brute courage. To leave the man to drown, had been easy enough; the boat was overloaded, and every man ought to look after himself; but to kill him now in cold blood was different. 'Come out here into the light, young chap, do you hear?' Gerard wouldn't move. That he had overheard more than these rascals would dare to let him go free to repeat, was evident enough. As long as he held to the bag, they wouldn't throw him over the rocks; but his life would not be safe the moment he parted with that. As long as he held it, he was safe, but not for a moment after. His position was a strong one, with his back against the crag, in the angle between the rock and the summer-house; he had secured a splinter from the rock, a sharp triangular stone; his right arm was still powerful, he could knock over the first man who approached him. 'Give up that money-bag, young man, that you snatched out of my hands. It isn't yours; and if you don't work fair, you'll have to be dealt with foul!' 'If it isn't mine, it isn't yours,' said Gerard. 'Come, young gentleman,' said John interposing, 'let us have our money, and then go your way. You shan't be touched afterwards; no, indeed.' 'If you will go before me to the banker's houseyou are his servant, I know-if you will go-you three-and wake up your master, I will hand him the money to hold for you.' 'The money is ours, and Mr Rowlands has nothing to do with it,' said John. 'Give it up, and you go safe; if not ''Well, if not?' 'If not, you beggar, you shall swing for it!' cried an exulting voice from above, and at the same moment Gerard felt a rope about him. Whilst he had been talking to the clerk, Brumfit had crept back into the room above in the summer-house, had noosed a cord, and thrown it over Gerard's head. 'I ain't been rough-riding in the Pampas for nothing, my bullies!' said Brumfit exultingly, as he tightened the cord and drew it round a massive beam in the roof. Now, my beauty, hand out that bag before I count ten, or up you go dancing the devil's hornpipe. One, two, three!' 'Stop!' cried Gerard in agony; 'if I give it you, will you let me go free?' "Eh?' said the man doubtfully, bending down and scrutinising the prisoner's face. 'What! you won't die game then, now, eh? You're shewing e the white-feather, eh?' The mocking face, with its long rough beard, was brought within a few feet of Gerard's head, as the man leaned forward, grasp ing the rope with both his hands, and tightening its tension till it was agony to bear it. Gerard made a spring-it was his only chance -sprang like a tiger at the brutal mocking face, and grasped it firmly by the beard, twisting his hand round and round in the hair of it. Brumfit shrieked and roared with the pain, and perforce loosened his grasp of the rope, as he used his hands to grapple with his assailant; but the other two now seized their opportunity, and pinioning Gerard by arms and legs, dragged him back to the platform in front of the summer-house. 'No bloodshed,' said John. 'Tie his arms and legs, and fling him into the cellar.' Ah! tie him up, and fling him into the cellar,' whispered Brumfit hoarsely. Curse him! he's torn out half my beard. Fling him down the hole; he'll tell no tales there. There's three feet of water down there to stop his mouth.' In all this struggle for life or death, there had been no loud shouting, no cries, the silence of the night had hardly been disturbed. As they stood now, Gerard, a hopeless prisoner in the hands of his captors, he looked round once more at the fair scene which should be his last vision of life. Oh, it could not be that he was going to die-drowned like a rat in a hole. It could not be that all this fair world to him should be as nothing! that the coldness and darkness of death should blot him out for ever! Surely, helplessly to meet death with all the faculties undimmed, with every power and desire in full force-to meet death with life unfulfilled, was to compress all human woe into one short space of bewildered agony! And yet, doubtless, the recording spirit undismayed witnessed the terrified rush of all the currents of life, noted their agonies, noted and pitied, with a profound sadness, perchance with an awful curiosity! Was there no help, then, in this calm, unfeeling world; in the cruel sea, chafing its rocky bounds; in the cold moon, even now rising sadly over the mountains; in the dark shadows of the hills; in the twinkling lights of the shore? No; there was no help for him; he must die! summer-house, leaving Gerard unguarded for the moment. But he also was too much entranced by what he saw to take advantage of their neglect. She-the white vestal figure-meantime noticing nothing of this, came forward through the gate, and strained she walked, easily erect; her hair hung along the narrow, rocky path. Freely and uncondown in loose and careless masses; her eyes, solemnly inquiring of something, were steadfastly fixed, looking into mid-air; fair embroidery was about her neck and shoulders; her loose, white garment floated about her, shewing here the fair lines of a rounded bust, there the flowing curves of the limbs white and naked feet gleamed on the rocky path; of a nymph of Diana. Beneath her robes, her her arms were hanging carelessly by her side; and in a hand she held a candlestick with extinguished candle. All the living things of the night seemed to call her back as she opened that wicket-gate. The glowing light from her chamber-window, shining now white, now red-the round red eye of the light-tower on the cliff-the twinkling lamps of the ships-the sad and gleaming stars, all were calling to her: 'Come back, come back!' But she heeded none of these, but went forth into the darkness, her eyes fixed on mid-air. And thus she walked on void alike of fear, of hope, or of purpose, except for the vague questioning of her solemn eyes. She walked steadily along the path, steadily, and yet doubtfully, as though her limbs, like welltrained steeds, obeyed yet questioned the guidance her robe floating over the abyss, treading fearlessly, of an unfamiliar hand. Along the path she came, as with accustomed footsteps. But the gully, ah! the gully, where the footpath had crumbled away! The small white foot was put out, that step was destruction! With a loud shout, Gerard leaped from his nook on the rock, sprang across the gully a little above where she stood rocking over the abyss, seizing her by the arm as he sprang, and clasping her firmly to him with his sound arm, carried her safely to the wicket-gate, laid her tenderly on the then turned round to face his pursuers. CHAPTER XXIV. grass, and For nothing can be ill, if she be well Evan Rowlands, too, at the stroke of three awoke from the heavy sleep in which he had been wrapped, But whilst he thus hopelessly looked round, he for after he had settled with the men who were heard a faint noise like the opening of a door or preying upon him, he had been too much exhausted window a long way off. Coming in the stillness of to find his way to bed-awoke to find himself cold, the night-a stillness unbroken, except by the thick, and cramped, and miserable. But the misery of hurried breathing of the men who stood over himage is not so poignant as the misery of youth: this faint noise was heard by all who stood on the plateau; and for a moment the grasp of hands upon Gerard slackened, and all looked eagerly in the direction from which the sound proceeded that is, along the narrow ledge or pathway which led from the wicket-gate in the garden of Bodgadfan. All of a sudden, there appeared at the gate a white and vestal form. Thrown up against the deep, luminous gray of sea and sky, the figure seemed almost gigantic. Clad in white from head to foot, glowing with a mystic light, her face directed to the crouching men on the rock, she seemed a very embodiment of an accusing spirit to the would-be murderers. In horror and expectation they huddled together on the steps of the age possesses so much in the past, so little in the future; youth has all in hope, and nothing in possession, and so is bankrupt indeed, if hope be taken away. Rowlands, only passively miserable, crept away to his bed, and then bethought him that he had never said good-night to Winny. He had even forgotten that in his distress-had for gotten his nightly visit to his daughter's bed-side. Ever since she had been a child of three or four, he had been accustomed to go and give her a good-night kiss, to stop, perhaps, and gossip a few moments by her bed-side, to smooth the pillow, and tuck in the counterpane; and the custom hai never been discontinued, though Winny was no longer a child. He made his way, therefore, along the silent deserted passages towards the north wing of the house, in which his daughter slept. As he opened the folding-doors which divided the new wing from the older portion, he was met by a great waft of hot smoky air and vapour. In agonised alarm, he ran quickly forward towards the hall. The hall was of an ancient fashion, open to the roof-timbers of the house; from it were entered all the rooms on the ground floor; whilst a broad oak staircase led up to a gallery running round three of its sides, from which opened the doors of the sleeping-rooms. years ago, when the wild Cymry, rushing down upon the little sheltered village of the Gaels, had fired the thatched roofs of its miserable cutiau, and brought destruction upon all that dwelt therein. For the old hall of Bodgadfan was gutted and destroyed; its weather-worn gray walls were all besmirched with smoke, or whitened by flame; its timbers were sticking out here and there, charred and blackened; its lawns were trodden into mud; its glass houses shattered into fragments. The new wing was untouched by the flames, and in his study sat Evan Rowlands, desolate. The staircase was still standing, but the gallery He had thought, when his daughter appeared to on the north side was on fire, the tongues of flame him alive and unhurt, that no further misfortune licking the sides of the walls, and darting eagerly could now affect him; that he could bear with up at the timbers of the roof. But the most cruel unconcern any evils Fate might have in store for sight of all to see was that the flames had come him. But with the cold bleak morning came a from out of Winny's bedroom, which was a mass revulsion of feeling: he wished he had perished of white, blinding fire, glowing through the shat- in the flames; kinder, in the short agony they would tered doorway. She might be still saved from the have inflicted, than the smooth, gentle world to front. Giving a wild tug at the alarm-bell as he the man who has lost his footing and has fallen. passed, he opened the hall door, and ran out into For he had fallen now; there was no doubt about the front. But, miserable man that he was, he it. It was useless to try to escape his destiny. was too late! The fire had shivered the glass of He had seen clearly last night, when he was the window, and thick black smoke was rolling visited by John and his two associates, that he was out, in which a tongue of red flame every now and hopelessly in the toils. John had even proposed to then leaped into life. No human being could be him that they should appropriate the balance of alive in that chamber of fire. There was a wooden gold and marketable securities lying in the bank verandah outside Winny's room, and he might coffers, and divide the proceeds amongst the four; reach that by a little bridge which connected it that the bank should be closed next day, and Rowwith a rocky knoll that abutted on the eastern lands be declared a bankrupt; that the deficiency wing. If he couldn't save her, he might at least in the cash should be accounted for by remittances die with her. In a moment, the black smoke-on account of the expenses of the ship, for which cloud from the window changed to a glow of blind- Captain Ellis and he would find vouchers. The ing flame, and the wooden verandah shrivelled up banker had temporised with this offer. He thought before it. Evan threw himself upon the ground, he might be able to turn the tables on his friends: and beat his forehead against the earth. he had thought of giving them all into the custody of the police on a charge of conspiracy. But then the written authority he had given his clerk to deal with the ship as he thought fit-this damning evidence would surely convict him too. And then the young man taken away, by his orders, from his house, and put on board the doomed vessel, lost so soon after: here were tragic proofs enough to blot his name from the roll of honest men. And what was more terrible still, he could not own himself guiltless! No; for one fatal moment, he had been a murderer in his heart; of that moment the Evil One had taken advantage; he was lost, for ever lost! Before a danger so imminent, in the presence of a doom so terrible, his mind almost gave way; but then the thought came to him: lost as he was, he might yet save his daughters, his son! For his own sake, he had rather end it at once-confess the evil thoughts he had harboured, the evil deeds he had sanctioned, and await the penalty. But for their sakes he would yet play out his part. And then there came to him the coolness and clear-sightedness of utter despair. The worst had happened to him; he could fall no lower; but he might yet stand forth for awhile before the world a whited sepulchre, an outwardly respectable man. If he could only make up enough to save Arthur from sharing his ruin, then the crash might come; there would be a home for his daughters, a plank to save them from the wreck. What happiness would have been to him the misery of a few moments ago! Had his daughter only been spared to him, what joy the wretchedness of ruin would seem! At the thought of her miserable, tortured death, his reason left him. He leaped to his feet with all the vigour of youth. 'O'Winny, Winny, anwyl bach, come back to me, or let me go to you!' he cried, as he stretched his arms to the flames, and ran tottering towards them. 'Father!' said a voice close to his ear; and then he turned, and fell upon his daughter's neck. As for Gerard, standing at bay by the wicketgate, the whole of the events of the next few moments seemed to him as a vision. He thought he saw the figure of the burly mate leaping out at him from the chasm-thought he saw him recoil, as a bell seemed to clang forth defiance into his very face, and a bright light shot out, and shouts and cries were heard: he thought, too, he saw figures crawling down the rocks. But, for his part, he could do no more; he could only lie upon the grass, clutching at it with his hands, whilst the powers of earth and heaven fought their fight out above him. CHAPTER XXV. But look! the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks on the dew of yon high eastern hill. The sun, rising over the rocks, and peering down into the little glen of Bodgadfan, sees a very sad sight on this winter morning, such a sight as he had never seen since that black day, two thousand The fire had complicated matters still more. His goods were insured at their full value. The money he would receive from the insurance company would be a seasonable reinforcement, if he could only hold out; but would not all the circumstances tell cruelly against him, if the real state of his affairs became known? Whilst he sat in his study musing and mourning, alternately calling to his memory all the past scenes of his life, crying out sadly to himself: 'Why should it end thus? What evil hand is this which has thus wrecked a well-spent life?' or again eagerly forecasting all the direful contingencies of the sad future-the room was suddenly darkened, and between him and the light he saw the figures of his three accomplices. They tapped at the window, and he rose and let them in. 'What do you want now?' he cried. 'Wait a bit,' cried John. 'We've been robbed, Mr Rowlands, bach-robbed of our hard earnings by a bit of a lad; and that's our first job with you. We want a warrant for him, Mr Rowlands.' 'You must apply through the police,' said Rowlands. 'Give in your complaint to Sergeant Jones, and he will come to me for a warrant if it's necessary.' 'Yes,' said John; 'only time presses; the lad will be away if we're not sharp; and I thought you wouldn't care to have Sergeant Jones up here till things had been cleared away a bit. That was why I didn't bring him with me, Mr Rowlands.' 'What do you mean?' 'Do you know what they're saying in the town about the fire, Mr Rowlands, eh? That the fire at Bodgadfan was lit to warm the bank? Deed, you were too quick altogether, Mr Rowlands, bach; first the ship, then the house. You'll bring discredit upon us with being too quick, Mr Rowlands.' 'You villain!' exclaimed the banker. 'You know, at all events, however much appearances may be against me ' That's just it-appearances, Mr Rowlands; you should take more care of appearances. Now, look here, what I find in the lawn of Bodgadfan! See, Mr Rowlands, a candlestick! such a pretty candlestick! I know whose candlestick it is. I know who unlaces her pretty little stays with this pretty little candlestick. Well, we'll say it's Miss Winny's candlestick, eh, Mr Rowlands? Well, the fire burns all Miss Winny's room to cinders, but it doesn't burn pretty Miss Winny, or pretty Miss Winny's pretty candlestick-no! And see, on the little curly handle here, a little tiny bit of -what do you think, Mr Rowlands, bach, eh? why, a bit of burned lace-curtain! Ha, ha! Miss Winny. She's a very dutiful daughter; 0 yes, Mr Rowlands, bach!' "Villain! don't bring my daughter's name out of your foul throat again, or I'll brain you where you stand!' cried Rowlands, jumping up almost crazy with passion. A tap was heard at the door. May I come in?' cried the sweet voice of Winny, who opened the door and walked in without waiting for a reply. 'Deed, Miss Winny, you are the very one we are looking for,' cried John, running to fetch her a chair. We're quite a family party now, eh, Mr Rowlands?' 'Then I'm afraid I'm an intruder,' said a frank, clear English voice, that of Gerard, who had followed Winny into the room. The three accomplices stared at each other in blank amazement. The banker looked puzzled ; he had never seen Gerard Robertson. A LINCOLNSHIRE VILLAGE. O'er heather-purpled moors, look down The sea-fringed vales; not all can dwell Where Cornwall's granite cliff-walls frown. Such charms though Mem'ry can create, When willing hearts hear duty's voice; Contented thankfulness will mate With common sights, and yet rejoice. A straggling knot of dull brick streets, Backed by flat plough-land-see my home; A straight-cut stream gray sky there meets, Here brick kilns hang a smoky dome. Gaunt ash-trees, lonely poplars wave, Tall sedges pipe their endless song; The sullen crow, when west winds rave, The muddy sheep-cotes stalks among. You shudder? Yes, but if you came To work here with a brave stern mind, Dull sights would seem not quite the same; Perchance some beauties you might find. Here the dark curtain of the morn Is lifted from an amber sky; Denies men here her grandest mood; She coyly yields for Fancy's food. The world's great drama in these cots Though humble, here are doubts, hopes, fears, While secretly his torn heart bleeds. Squalid and toil-worn, without books Or lore of buried years-Romance May find here lowly heroes, looks That fall before a maiden's glance. You smile for nobler scenes you yearn; These simple themes upon you grate; Well, one at least will strive to learn In poor dim ways man's work, man's fate. No peaks of snow gleam interfused With rosy tints here-day's last breath; But here is that which, rightly used, Will solve the ends of life and death. The Publishers of CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL beg to direct the attention of CONTRIBUTORS to the following notice: 1st. All communications should be addressed to the 'Editor, 47 Paternoster Row, London.' 2d. To insure the return of papers that may prove ineligible, postage-stamps should in every case accom pany them. 3d. All MSS. should bear the author's full CHRISTIAN name, surname, and address, legibly written. 4th. MSS. should be written on one side of the leaf only. Unless Contributors comply with the above rules, the Editor cannot undertake to return rejected papers. Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Pater. noster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH Also sold by all Booksellers. waistcoat! Poised in air, on quivering wings, we watch him thrust his slender bill into each blossom, chirping to his wife meanwhile, who is engaged with maternal cares in a marvellous nest, swinging from a twig of the passion-flower creeper, that covers the arch above mentioned. Mrs Honeybird is an architect of taste: the house, about the size of a large orange, is beautifully built of scraps of paper, dried leaves, wool, and feathers, so curiously woven together, that unless closely examined, it would be hard to say what was its material. It is fastened to the twig from which it depends by a cunning splice tied with fibre; and over the entrance to the nest, Mrs Honeybird has erected a kind of little porch, sticking out at right angles from the main structure, that seems intended to serve the purpose of a sunshade for the occupant when sitting on her eggs; and having her tiny little head thrust outside, perhaps for want of room FROM AN INDIAN VERANDAH. PEOPLE who have never been in India are wont to take an exaggerated view of the disagreeables attendant upon an enforced confinement to the house during the daytime, such as most AngloIndians must endure in a climate where there is little pleasure, and some risk, in exposure to the sun from 9 A.M. to 4 P.M. They forget, or are ignorant of the fact, that Indian bungalows are built on a very different pattern from that of English houses; that, in fact, lofty rooms and wide verandahs render the irksomeness of confinement tolerable, if, indeed, not actually agreeable, to those who have no dislike for a sedentary life, or the occupations and amusements consequent upon such a state of existence. For many AngloIndians, indeed, the verandah serves the purposes of drawing-room, study, smoking-room, and place of exercise, and if, as is the case at Bangalore-inside, or for some reasons best known to herself. two hundred miles from Madras-it is commonly festooned with creepers of various kinds, it is no bad coign of vantage from which to observe, in a lazy way, the habits of many birds, beasts, and insects one might scarcely notice in places less suited to meditation than is a shady verandah with its easy-chairs, and those Cocanada cigars, that seem always a part and parcel of the locality. Let the reader, by some slight stretch of his imagination, take a long-armed chair, elevate his feet to a level with his head, light a cigar, and look blankly forth at the masses of blossoms and green leaves shutting out the glare of the morning sun; or perhaps out through the arch of foliage into the gardens, where Indian and English flowers are growing side by side, and where the malys, or native gardeners, are affecting to work, while squatting on their hams, and holding earnest conversation with each other. If the reader has any taste for natural history, his gaze will not long be a blank one. Hark! there is a chirp and a rustle in the leaves of the sky-blue convolvulus close at hand; and looking up, lo! a charming little mite of a honeybird, in his gay nuptial plumage of metallic black and green coat, and bright buff Her mate is the most devoted of husbands. He is constantly fluttering round his tiny wife, inquiring, doubtless, how she is getting on with her troubles; or sits on an adjacent spray, singing a shrill, but not unpleasant little tune, for her amusement. By-and-by, as we daily watch the happy pair from the verandah, we see the increasing cares of a family come upon the couple, when the parent birds will search the flowers with intense eagerness, and carry their honeyed treasures incessantly to the young honeybirds, who, it must be confessed, are dreadfully voracious for their size; little Olivers, ever chirping 'for more.' But who is this grave and reverend signior that now drops, as it were, from the clouds, on to the carriage-drive beneath us, and noiselessly takes stock of our occupation, with an eye that gleams like a diamond, and that is brimful of cunning and suspicion? This is the Indian crow-Corvus splendens, the naturalists call him but more of a jackdaw than a crow, to judge from his size, and the grayish tint of his head and neck. An artful rogue is Corvus, and, though he affects to be thinking of nothing particular, it is easy to see that he has marked a piece of bread that has fallen upon the |
